


derry crushes anonymous

by transatlantyks



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Beverly Marsh, Nonbinary Mike Hanlon, Nonbinary Stanley Uris, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Trans Male Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transatlantyks/pseuds/transatlantyks
Summary: Seven losers with a penchant for drama and an anonymously-run Facebook page in the middle of Nowhere, Maine. Absolutely nothing can go wrong.Derry Crushes Anonymousposted:heart eyes at the entirety of Gag Reflex Therapy but especially that trashmouth guy, even if he really needs to clean his glasses (I still think you’re cute and funny though)-> Beverly Marsh, Stanley Uris, Ben Hanscom and 4 others liked this post.Anna Matthews: seriously Richie jfcDarren Herrera: @Richie Tozierwe fuckign told you bitchDarren Herrera: anyway, heart eyes back at you for coming to our show!Richie Tozier: can’t see this hate from behind the fingerprint stains on my glasses @Darren Herrera@Anna MatthewsRichie Tozier: but also who are you i just wanna talk
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 80





	derry crushes anonymous

**Author's Note:**

> A note on pronouns to avoid confusion:  
> * Beverly Marsh identifies as nonbinary and uses she/her or they/them pronouns. This is reflected in the story by use of different pronouns in certain subsections.  
> * Stanley Uris and Mike Hanlon both identify as nonbinary as well and use they/them pronouns.

I

 **Derry Crushes Anonymous** posted:

> heart eyes at the entirety of Gag Reflex Therapy but especially that trashmouth guy, even if he really needs to clean his glasses (I still think you’re cute and funny though)

-> Beverly Marsh, Stanley Uris, Ben Hanscom and 4 others liked this post.

 **Anna Matthews** : seriously Richie jfc  
**Darren Herrera** : @[Richie Tozier](.) we fuckign told you bitch  
**Darren Herrera** : anyway, heart eyes back at you for coming to our show!  
**Richie Tozier** : can’t see this hate from behind the fingerprint stains on my glasses @[Darren Herrera](.) @[Anna Matthews](.)  
**Richie Tozier** : but also who are you i just wanna talk

II

It’s Sunday morning, — almost Sunday noon, brunch time. Right outside the Derry College student center, Richie Tozier and Beverly Marsh sit together on the granite curb near the field, all so Beverly can have a smoke, even though it’s not warm enough for it to be comfortable to sit outdoors just yet. The first springtime inhalations are only just beginning to reach Derry. Their shoes still bear the marks of having just recently stepped on roadside slush, and when they look out at the field, they see the snow still in white patches among the anxious spikes of grass reaching out for sunlight.

Richie takes another hurried sip from his coffee, trying to drink most of it before it goes cold. Finally, he asks, looking over at Beverly who still has his phone in hand: “Well, who do you think posted it?”

Beverly has to pull the cigarette from her lips, amusement making her lips quirk up. “Why would I know? I don’t go to your improv shows to look at the audience —” she hands the phone back to Richie, “ — or you, even. Actually, I go to look at Anna Matthews," she teases. "Do you think she’s into women, too?”

Richie scoffs, because it’s not the answer he wants to hear. “I — come on, it’s not that big of a school. And not that many people come to the improv shows, anyway. You basically know everyone there.” He takes another sip from his coffee. “And yes, she does, by the way. I know that for certain.”

Richie has been on the comedy improv team for three years now, meaning that Beverly has been coming to their shows for almost equally as long. She knows not just their regular audience by now, but most of the improv team members as well. The latter fact is not so much because she comes to their shows, but because Richie always invites her over when there’s free food after the team rehearsals.

Beverly shrugs. “I really have no idea. Honest.”

Richie’s silent for a moment. He’s not certain that he believes her, or believes that she does not at least have an inkling, but he also thinks that questioning further might be a lost cause. “Well, still, s’about fucking time someone sent one in for me.”

“Who do you think even runs the thing?” he starts again, pressing down a different line of inquiry now. “It was inactive practically all of last year. Think it got a new admin?”

The submissions to the Derry Crushes page had started rolling again only this school year, sometime after winter break. It was mid-March now.

The regular submissions, for the most part, consisted of messages sent from one friend to another, or else positivity messages for strangers, missed connections. Small compliments for Andrew from French II or that nameless kid handing out free pronoun pins on the first day of class. An attempt to make someone’s day. But people too shy to actually say anything to their crushes occasionally sent messages in, too, and those were the fun ones to read, of course.

Probably the only negative part of the Derry Crushes Anonymous restoration, though, was the fact that whoever had taken on as the page’s administrator back in January had, rather unfortunately, decided to clear the inbox and post all of the messages that had been sent in during the page’s period of inactivity instead of just _deleting_ them. That night, when the page started updating, Richie had almost lost his mind.

“Probably, yeah,” Beverly replies. “The old admin probably graduated and someone else messaged them for ownership of the page, or they passed it on to a friend.”

Oddly specific answer.

“Sure it isn’t you?” Richie says, suspicious. “Seriously, you can tell me it is. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. Shit, I’ll run it with you — or you can just tell me who sent in the glasses message and I’ll leave you alone.”

Beverly laughs. “It is absolutely not me. You know if it was I would have tracked down whoever sent that post about me at the beginning of the semester.”

“Sounds unethical.”

“I mean,” she shrugged, embarrassed. “Like you wouldn’t do the same,” — she’s not wrong; to say they’re both slightly starved for warmth is an understatement, and they both know it, — “Why do you care so much, anyway?”

Straight to the jugular. That question nearly makes him grit his teeth. Because Richie Tozier might be a hopeless romantic, sure, — might the type who’d look for his name in bathroom stall graffiti, the type who felt the throe of silent yearning whenever he passed the kissing bridge and saw couples carving their initials into the wood, — but he’s not about to announce that fact to the world.

“I don’t,” he answers, knowing in his gut that it’s too quick and brief to be believable. “I mean, say hypothetically this person’s my soulmate or something, I track them down, turns out it’s my very own classic Hallmark romcom-for-the-ages type of story, but it probably isn’t. Just want to know who has vision like that, you know? Seriously, fingerprint stains on my glasses? Eyes of a hawk.”

Beverly laughs. “Fair, yeah. Well, how about — if you care so much, I’ll help you figure it out. Yeah?”

Richie raises his eyebrows. “Uh, deal?”

Richie doesn’t really know what that means, but Beverly thinks she might know where to start.

**III**

“Triple vanilla soy!” The call is made for the second time.

There is a crowd of students gathered around the order counter of the Lava Java Café, and if you asked Eddie Kaspbrak what he loved most in the world, it would absolutely not include his morning shift’s rush hour. The drink orders only keep coming in, the counter piling up with orders and orders until — “TRIPLE. VANILLA. SOY —”

Latte guy’s coming to pick it up, giving Eddie an apologetic smile as he steps in through the crowd of students. “Sorry, it’s mine.”

“Okay, enjoy.”

“You too, Ed —” Soy latte guy starts, but then smiles nervously and runs, and maybe Eddie feels a little bad for shouting that guy’s order so loud, or if he'd feel bad if he didn't have yet another double espresso cappuccino to make.

The string of coffee orders keep rolling until about 9:45, by which time everyone decides to head off to class, and only a few lone students with their study books and sketchpads are left in the coffee shop.

It would be easy to guess that working at the Lava Java Café was not Eddie Kaspbrak’s dream job. But then college students did not have dream jobs.

And unfortunately, mother had not been willing to pay for her darling son to run away from her iron hold, the easy embrace of Midwestern safety, where nothing ever happened. In the end, though, she had ceded on cosigning a loan, after much insisting on his part and a promise that he’d come back during spring break and Thanksgiving break and the summers and winters. Whether it’d been a true act of kindness and motherly love, or her final act of manipulation to get him to eventually come back under the burden of his magnificent debt, he was yet to find out.

Now with the coffee shop rush crowd gone, Eddie feels the slap of a kitchen towel against his side. It’s light and playful, and when he turns towards the side of the cash register, Beverly greets him with a wide smile.

If you asked Eddie now what he loved most in the world, he’d say without a doubt that it was the friends he’d made ever since coming to Derry: Beverly, Bill, Ben. (His three bees.) It was here, on his first day at Lava Java Café that he’d met Beverly. Their friendship had blossomed on its own accord during these quiet breaks. First over talks about their classes, and then slowly, subtly, into talks about the pronouns pin on his backpack (Beverly had asked if she knew where he could get one, and he’d pointed her to the student center where someone at a table was handing them out for free), into talks about how, hey, family kind of fucking sucked, and how good it was to finally get away.

“So, what did you think? Of the show this weekend,” Beverly asks, pulling him out of his reminiscing.

“The improv team?” Eddie asks, thinking back to the late night show on Saturday. “Oh, yeah, it was funny. I liked it,” he says, casually averting his eyes. “Everyone was really funny.”

“Yeah, I heard you laughing. Thought you’d liked it. Do you think you’d come again?”

“Is there another show soon?”

“Not sure. I’ll have to ask Richie.” When Eddie doesn’t respond, they clarify: “The trashmouth guy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Eddie says. There’s something about that phrasing — _trashmouth guy_ — and suddenly, he feels himself needing to skirt cautiously around this conversation.

“Do you know each other?”

“Maybe? Yeah not … not sure that ... ”

Beverly furrows their eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that we had a semester of Spanish together freshman year, I think, before I dropped it? I mean, pretty sure, yeah pretty sure it was him.” Even if he’d changed a good deal in appearance ever since, he couldn’t just forget, because they had on more than one occasion been paired up together on practice drills.

( “Hola, me llamo Richie.” “Hola, me llamo Eddie.”  
“Oh, let’s use Spanish names,” Professor Velázquez had suggested with a smile, proud of his pedagogical practices. “Ahora los nombro Ricardo y Eduardo.”  
Eddie had only caught the _RicardoyEduardo_ part. )

“And he’s Ben’s roommate now. So yeah, I see him every once in a while," Eddie continued. "Whatever, though. We don’t really talk. Although, you know, — he keeps calling me Eds.”

**IV**

There’s a missing book at the Derry College library. Actually, there are a number of missing books at the Derry College library. Thankfully, the culprit is usually none other than Ben Hanscom, but he has an agreement with the librarian that he doesn't mind having books taken away from his honours reserve desk if somebody else comes asking for them.

This time, the missing book is one that Bill Denbrough needs desperately for his History of Ancient Civilizations course, and right at this moment, he’s working up the courage to ask the student shelving books for help.

Finally, he takes a step forward. “Hey,” he says, and Mike Hanbrough turns their head to look at him with an inquisitive look, taking one earphone out of their ear. “I’m, um, … I’m looking for a book.”

 _Genius,_ he thinks. _Truly genius._ For a moment, he thinks that Mike is going to look at him like he’s an idiot, because it’s a _library_ , and of course he’s looking for a book. But actually, _they_ just turn and give him a kind smile, because as someone who’s fairly sure they want to be a librarian in the future, they know better than anyone else that libraries are home to much more than just books: there are microforms, CDs, DVDs, old newspapers, e-books. Mike could go on and on and on. 

“It’s not on the shelf, is the problem,” Bill clarifies. “Do you think you could check if it’s on your shelving cart?”

“Oh. Sure, I can help.” Mike says, “Which book is it? If it’s not an Art History book it’s probably not any of these. I can still look through the shelving stacks for you, though.”

“Ah, yeah. It’s a history book,” Bill pulls out his cellphone to show them the title of the book along with the stacks number.

“Right, okay, so that won’t be here.” Mike puts the shelving cart in a corner for a moment, and after looking at Bill’s phone, together they head over to the shelving stacks on the first floor.

Mike scans the labels on the books on the shelves, and it’s all but two minutes until they're pulling out the book and handing it over with a bright smile. “Here it is." 

Mike Hanlon, apart from probably being the brightest person in the Ancient Civilizations course, also had a smile that could light up an entire room. Bill’s relief is nearly palpable when he sees the book. “Wow, thank you. You’re a life-saver,” he says. “I forgot to copy down the page for a reference and — yeah, it’s for Professor Winterson’s project. Really needed it.”

“I figured. It’s no problem.” Mike had noticed Bill in class in the past, but it was one of the larger courses at Derry, and they didn’t really know everyone’s name. Still, they asked: “How’s that going for you?”

“It’s fine. History’s not my strong suit, but I needed the soc credits. How’s yours?”

“It’s going well." They were practically finished, Mike thought with some relief. “I think once I have someone look it over I’ll go turn in the first draft.”

“Oh, wow. That’s early.” Bill says, impressed, before something strikes him: “Actually, I’m a writing tutor. At the writing center? Seven to nine at night every Tuesday, so if you want to come by, I can, I can help,” he shrugs, trying to be casual.

“That would be great, actually. I'd rather someone in the same class look it over,” Mike smiles. “Tuesday, seven to nine, you said?”

“Seven to nine,” Bill confirms. “Great,” says Mike. “I’ll see you then.”

And Bill goes with his book and a smile on his face.

**V**

“Okay, never mind,” Eddie shakes his head vigorously, “— thanks for offering but I don’t think I want any of this stuff in my body.” It’s seven-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday, and currently, a freshly-showered Eddie is bent over the kitchen counter at Ben’s apartment with a brand-new container of protein shake powder in his hands. He squints lightly as he examines the tiny print on the Nutrition Facts label. “Seems like all this does is _load_ your body with aspartame.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Ben replies.

Wrong answer.

“You don’t know what aspartame is?” Eddie says, in disbelief.

But when Eddie really thinks about it, he’s not completely sure how to describe it himself, and now he has to find a way to make up for his tone. “It’s — it’s — it’s like … a sugar … compound, but _worse_ , because it’s fake? It’s harder for your body to process. But all the big companies use it because that way they can market everything as zero-calorie and sugar which ...”

It’s seven-thirty in the morning, and probably too early for this, but if Ben nods along and tells himself not to mind it, it’s because Eddie’s his friend, and despite it all, he knows that Eddie _tries_.

Come to think of it, Ben thinks, they’ve been running and gym friends for almost two years now. Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 5:45 they go to the gym, shower, and by 7:30 they’re usually back to prepare breakfast and go to work or class. They don’t really see much of each other at the gym, with Eddie taking to the indoor track field and Ben heading straight for the weights after warming up, but it’s more about holding each other accountable, and it's worked out solidly. And then, he likes the morning company, too. He’d found out early enough that Eddie’s cooking skills were more or less non-existent, which wasn’t at all a good problem to have when you had as many food restrictions as he did. So breakfast and the occasional home-cooked dinner together had become commonplace, and in exchange, Eddie often brought over whatever ingredients they needed.

“I’m … sure it’s fine, seriously. You probably don’t need it, then, but I’m just trying to get more protein in my diet,” Ben replies with a small shrug when Eddie finishes his aspartame rant, cracking some eggs over a bowl. “You want an omelet, though?”

“Fine, yeah, I’ll take an omelet,” Eddie says as he places a large bowl of instant cinnamon oatmeal into the microwave, Ben’s easy tone calming him down. His mom had always said these microwaved foods weren’t good for you, just like aspartame and MSG and food colorings, so maybe he shouldn’t be running his mouth and repeating. 

But it was just hard, at times, because every Tuesday at 4:30pm he went to therapy and he talked it all out and some weeks sure were better than others. Some weeks were _great_ , in fact, and he could go days without worrying about what was in his food, and his therapist had shown him how to block health info websites on his computer, but sometimes that fear that maybe his mother hadn't been lying to him at all comes crawling back and, well, think about it, he’s been taking naps more often than usual (but no, this really has been an extra loaded week, hasn’t it?) and maybe he’s fine today but what if he isn’t in two years? And then he doesn’t get to do all the things he’s wanted to do? So he has to take care of himself the best he can, and the only word of advice he got about that was from his mother, and he really hates thinking about his health but it’s no good to not think about it _at all,_ either, and —

The train of thought is interrupted, and he’d be grateful for it if it weren’t for who exactly interrupts it.

One of the apartment room doors open, and out from his room steps Richie. Usual bedhead, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt, and the first thing Richie thinks when he puts on his glasses and sees is _oh, shit, what’s_ he _doing here?_ Right, right. That workout thing with Ben. Usually, he goes to bed too late and _wakes up_ too late to actually ever see Eddie around. But that’s on the days when he’s not up agonizingly early because his mind won’t quiet down enough to let him sleep.

As a chorus of _actnormalactnormalactnormal_ goes off in Richie’s head, he suddenly pops up: “Hey! What’s Eduardo doing here?”

When he speaks, he realizes that his voice is a bit louder than he’d like it to be for the quiet hours of seven in the morning. And _that_ must be why Eddie drops the spoon he’d been washing in the sink, he realizes with an internal cringe.

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie says, scrambling to pick up the spoon from the sink. “Uh, workout morning with Ben. Same as usual.”

“Right, cool. Gimme a sec here, Eds,” and then Richie’s walking into the kitchen, t-shirt and boxers, straight for the sink. He puts his glasses on the counter, next to the sink, leans over it to splash water over his face, because he’s more or less freaking the fuck out, and the reasonable alternative would be to go back into his room, but his feet and his mouth have a tendency to move of their own accord and he’d been too embarrassed to stand there with his morning face in front of Eduardo from Spanish I.

Usually, Ben was content to watch these interactions quietly from the corner of his eye, but this time, he frowns. “Uh, can’t you wash your face in the bathroom?” _Why is he doing that?_

“Locked. Leo’s in the bathroom, I think. Or was. Either way, not going to risk stepping in there if he’s taken his massive morning shit and you know you wouldn’t ei —”

“ _O-kay,_ ” Ben says. _Got it._ But he's not looking at Richie so much as at Eddie, who's wrinkling his nose like he's trying not to laugh or holding back a sneeze. 

“Wait, Eds,” Richie says, grabbing a paper towel and patting his face down with it when he’s done with the sink, “were you at the Gag Therapy show last weekend?”

Eddie freezes where he’s standing, taking the bowl of oatmeal out of the microwave. For a moment, he thinks he might lie, but then he realizes he has no _reason_ to. “Um, yeah. Yeah, Beverly… Beverly dragged me. I didn’t know you were in it. I’m —” he’s trying to find some way to continue, but he’s thinking about _that trashmouth guy_ and how Beverly had used the exact same phrasing and how Richie’s putting his glasses back on, and doesn’t he notice that the water drops on them are going to dry and smudge his glasses all over again?

"Sure. What did you t —"

“ — right, shit. Sorry, Ben, but I’m going to be late for work, actually,” Eddie says, and suddenly he’s scrambling to grab a spoon and grabbing his backpack to head straight for the door, “I’ll give this to you when I see you again, sorry. See you Friday, 5:45 as usual. I’ll say hi to Bev for you.”

And he’s walking, running out the door and shutting it behind him before anything else can be said.

When Richie and Ben look at each other, it’s clear that their gazes say: _what the fuck was that?_ No answers. Only silence.

“Cool. _I’ll say hi to Bev for you._ ”

Ben doesn’t say a word in retaliation, even if he probably could. Does it matter what he thinks about that whole display? Probably not, because he’s probably wrong. Only that he’s been watching them out of the corner of his eye ever since Eddie started coming over, and maybe he's _not_ all that wrong.

At first, it was only for their running and gym mornings, and then, out of nowhere, because Eddie evidently needed help with calculus. Never mind that the calculus that engineering and design majors took was radically different from the one designed for econ majors, and besides, that Eddie seemed to be doing just fine in the class.

Ever since then, he’d started wondering if Eddie’s frequent visits to do homework were simply about having company while he did homework, — a perfectly legitimate motive and one that Ben was always happy to indulge —, or if they also had something to do with his roommate coming out to lean over the kitchen island to evidently do absolutely nothing other than scroll on his phone or do homework as he continuously pulled Cool Ranch Doritos out of the bag.

And maybe, Ben thinks, it’s time to find out the answer to all this.

**VI**

_“After decades of research, scientists have arrived at the startling conclusion that the complex movements of the leatherback and olive ridley sea turtles do not seem to be guided by any concrete goal. Instead, they …”_ Pause.

On their computer, the title of the next tab over changes: Facebook (1). It’s followed by a small tone, letting them know that they have a message.

 **Richie Tozier:** Hey we still on for brunch tomorrow?  
**Stanley Uris:** Yep. 10:30, at the student center

While they reply to the message, something on their news feed catches their eye.

 **Derry Crushes Anonymous** posted:

> So is crushing on Bill Denbrough just like, a rite of passage at this school?????? Ugh I have the biggest heart eyes. Anyway thanks for helping me with my English paper you’re the best!

-> Beverly Marsh, Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak, and 8 others liked this post.

They smile. 

**Stanley Uris** commented: who’s Bill Dam Burrows  
**Anish Biswas** replied to this: Cute guy, blond, short, really nice, works at the writing help center? @[Bill Denbrough](.)  
**Stanley Uris:** yeah, never heard of him …  
**Bill Denbrough:** /: Shut up Stanley  
**Stanley Uris:** I don’t even know who you are?  
**Stanley Uris:** not that nice to me @[Anish Biswas](.)

Footsteps echo lightly down the hallway, and then there’s a knock on their bedroom's door, before it opens.

“Ass.”

Stanley smiles, turning towards the familiar tone; familiar face peeking through the doorway.

“I am —” but Bill’s breaking down mid-sentence to laugh for no reason, maybe it’s just happiness, “I am plenty nice to you,” he says, biting on his lower lip, hand on the doorknob. “Are you doing homework?”

“Nope. I was just watching something. Can finish it tomorrow,” Stanley says, closing the lid on their laptop and putting it on the floor. Bill reads the motion as the invitation that it is, and steps into the room. When he climbs into the bed, he leans over to cup Stanley’s face with his hands and kiss them, because he’d _missed_ them. They might share the apartment, the two of them and two others, but third year is dreadfully busy, and sometimes they don't have as much time to spend together as they did during their first-year. 

Stanley welcomes his kisses, pulls him into their lap, even, and Bill has to make an actual effort not to get distracted, because he’d actually come here with the purpose of something other than calling Stanley an ass or seeing Stanley's ass. “Actually, actually,” he starts, sitting back on Stanley’s bed, “I came over because I wanted to talk to you about something, too. Is that fine?”

“Oh okay, sure. What is it?” Stanley says. That’s their _I’m listening_ tone & face, with the slightly furrowed eyebrows.

“I like someone new, I think. I was thinking that I might ask them out. I don’t know yet.”

“Oh, okay,” Stanley says. It's not the first time they've had this talk in their relationship, from one side or another. “Do you want to tell me who, or ...?”

“Mike? From the library desk. I don’t know if you know them. They’re, uh —”

Stanley’s features light up with recognition. And Bill thinks they’re actually _beaming_.

“Wait, is it … A minute,” they pause, hold up a finger as they pull their phone out. They pull up another Facebook post to show Bill. 

**Derry Crushes Anonymous** posted:

> Biggest friend crush on Stanley Uris from the Urban Studies and Policy course. Like I’d love to go birdwatching with you type of friend crush. They just seem like a nice person and always have good insights in class. 

-> Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier and 4 others liked this post.

 **Stanley Uris:** Wait, who are you? I’d really love to do this sometime, please.  
**Mike Hanlon:** It was me! Anyway, really?  
**Stanley Uris:** Yes! Dm me!

“Yeah, that’s them!” Bill says, surprised. And then he laughs. It's a strange but wonderful coincidence, he thinks. “Wait, since when are you friends?”

“Since about two weeks ago? We haven’t been birdwatching or spent much time together yet. It’s too early in the spring to see anything really interesting, so we’re going to wait until April.”

“Oh, cool,” Bill says.

“Yeah, they seem nice. Outreach chair for QPOC, American Studies major, I think.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. Yeah, no, I just know them from the library and Ancient Civilizations, but we haven’t talked much. I think he’s coming to my writing tutoring hours next week. Maybe. But the point is, you’re alright with it?”

“Mhm. Just tell me if you’re going to actually start dating or something. Keep things open as usual?”

Bill smiles and gives them a kiss. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos or a comment if you have a minute and you've enjoyed reading this. It would really make my day! x tavi.


End file.
